The sll was the first thing that always hit Lee Kang-joon.
Not the sterile scent of a hospital, nor the tallic tang of an accident.
It was the specific, cheap citrus scent of the cleaning product used on the floors of Starline Entertainnt’s practice rooms.
It was Monday. 6:00 AM.
He opened his eyes to the peeling white paint of the dormitory ceiling.
He didn’t need to check the calendar.
Every ti he died;whether it was last week as a debuted idol, six months ago as a lead vocalist, or three years ago as a failed trainee he woke up here.
On a Monday, in the upper bunk.
He sat up, the thin mattress squeaking a protest.
His body felt heavy, not with the lingering injuries of his last life, but with the cumulative exhaustion of ninety-six lives lived at a frantic pace.
He rembered the end of Loop #96.
A brief, terrible, seizure during a recording session.
A sudden, biological malfunction that looked like extre stress, but was sohow fatal.
Before that? Loop #95.
A slip-and-fall in the company cafeteria leading to a broken neck.
He swung his legs over the side, landing silently on the dust-speckled floor.
His three roommates all aspiring dancers were asleep in the bunks below.
They were the sa faces.
He moved to the small, grimy bathroom.
In the cracked mirror, he saw his face, twenty-one years old, a perfectly marketable ’visual’ with a haunted, deep gaze the trainers often praised as "intense emotion."
He splashed cold water on his face, trying to wash away the mories of the ninety-six ways he’d already failed.
[Ultimate Success System: Initialization Complete. Host Status: Sub-Optimal. Current Debut Success Score: 0.001% (Pending Training Assessnt).]
The text flashed briefly across his field of vision.
It was a rating system, a constant, annoying dashboard for his career.
0.001%.
The score of a newly reset failure, reflecting the imnse distance to true stardom.
Kang-joon sighed, rubbing his temples. "Good morning to you too," he muttered, pulling on a sweat-dampened practice shirt.
[Warning: Host Dialogue Unnecessary. Focus on Core Mandate: Achieving Debut Success.]
"My core mandate is staying alive long enough to debut, you idiot," he thought back, the silence of the response confirming the System’s indifference to his survival.
He pulled out the only thing the System granted him instantly upon reset: the [Perfect mory Chip].
It wasn’t a flood of recall.
He didn’t rembered the choreography for their debut song Starlight...he rembered the precise mont his dance trainer, Ms. Jin, would critique the movent in Loop #12, the exact day the composer would release the B-side track in Loop #55, and the specific week the CEO’s gambling scandal would break in Loop #78.
He had total, absolute knowledge of the future events, personnel, and trends of the next three years.
It should have made debut easy.
Yet, he had died ninety-six tis.
He walked the short, familiar path to the practice room.
Today, he wasn’t practicing his choreography. He was practicing the art of intentional failure.
He hit the playback button, and the aggressive synth beat of Starlight filled the room.
He began the choreography;a punishing, acrobatic sequence.
He danced it perfectly for the first two minutes.
His body, trained over countless loops, moved with the flawless precision of an S-Rank idol.
Then, he deliberately let his foot slip.
He caught himself quickly, turning the near-fall into a strained but successful recovery.
[Warning: Training Performance Stability: Decreased by 15%. Debut Success Score: Stagnant at 0.001%. Host must maintain optimal performance.]
The System was screaming at the dip in performance, but Kang-joon was calculating the risk.
He needed to be skilled enough to stay on the debut track; the only place where he could gather the necessary information about the industry’s traps...but flawed enough to avoid the Fatal Marker.
He ran through the entire song, ticulously adding minor, plausible flaws: a voice crack here, a slight timing issue there, a visible strain in his expression.
All things a harsh trainer would spot and correct, but not grounds for imdiate termination.
He rembered Loop #88.
He tried to sabotage the entire group to avoid debut.
He danced poorly, sang off-key, and acted sullen.
Result? He was fired from Starline and imdiately scouted by a smaller, more dangerous rival company, Eclipse.
He debuted with them a year later.
And died.
Food poisoning from a celebration dinner.
He stopped the music, sweat dripping onto the polished floor.
His throat was dry.
He pulled a bottled water from his bag. It was a new bottle.
He watched it carefully.
Was the seal broken? Was there a residual sll?
In Loop #17, he died from a lethal dose of a fast-acting neurotoxin that was masked perfectly in his energy drink.
He had no way of knowing who laced it or when.
Now, in every loop, every sip of water, every bite of food, every step off the curb was a matter of intense, paralyzing scrutiny.
He opened the bottle, took a small, cautious sip, then placed it back in his bag.
Survival was a constant, tiring battle against plausible normalcy.
The practice room door flew open.
"Kang-joon! You’re here early!"
It was Manager Kim, the man who would either be his most dedicated ally or the unwitting tool of his death, depending on the loop’s timing.
Manager Kim looked exactly the sa: tired eyes, ill-fitting suit, carrying a cardboard box full of lyric sheets.
"Couldn’t sleep, Manager-nim," Kang-joon said, wiping his face with a towel.
Manager Kim bead.
"That’s the fire I like to see! Look, I have the final vocal lines for your assessnt.
You nail this, you’re guaranteed the spot.
The CEO is pushing hard for you."
[Alert: Vocal Assessnt Imminent. Debut Success Score: Highly Dependent. Host Must Achieve A-Rank or higher.]
Kang-joon’s internal System scread with urgency.
This was a Minor Success Marker.
If he failed, his debut would be delayed, which was his imdiate goal.
But if he succeeded too perfectly, the clock might start ticking sooner.
"I’ll do my best," Kang-joon lied smoothly.
The vocal assessnt was held in a small sound studio.
Kang-joon stood before the microphone, the producer and Manager Kim watching through the glass.
The song was a new ballad, designed to showcase the main vocalist’s range.
Kang-joon knew the song.
He rembered the producer, Mr. Seo, hated vibrato.
He rembered Manager Kim would nudge the CEO later that day to recomnd Kang-joon for a high-paying, lucrative CF deal.
He started to sing.
The System rewarded him, slowly.
[Vocal Rank: S. Current Debut Score: 0.005%. Excellent Execution, Host. Small gain recorded.]
He sang the difficult high notes perfectly, his voice clear and resonant.
Then, he reached the final, emotional chorus.
Kang-Joon e added a layer of raw, painful desperation to his tone.
It didn’t sound like a marketable pop ballad.
He finished, and the room fell silent.
Mr. Seo, the producer, slowly lowered his headset. He didn’t look angry but disturbed.
"Kang-joon," Mr. Seo said slowly, his voice tight.
"That was technically perfect.
But... it’s too much.
It sounds like a funeral.
Take the emotion down three steps...We’re selling hope, not trauma."
[Warning: Emotional Output Overrode Marketability tric. Debut Success Score: Stagnant at 0.005%. Host must reduce psychological intensity.]
Manager Kim, however, looked ecstatic.
"It’s genius! It’s art!
This is what sets him apart!"
Kang-joon knew that Manager Kim’s enthusiasm would now clash with the producer’s caution, causing a crucial delay in his debut decision.
As they left the studio, the System gave its final, frustrating instruction for the day.
[System Analysis: Host is currently stable. Recomndation: Engage in necessary socializing with rivals/peers to increase long-term networking potential. This directly correlates with higher post-debut earnings.]
Kang-joon stopped in the hallway.
Socializing and networking?...that was building relationships that would be instantly reset when he died again.
He glanced at a clock on the wall.
10:30 AM Monday.
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